Poker Night
by Sterenyk Strey
Summary: ' "You tried to escape, John." Uh, no, lady. He really didn't. He'd been too caught up in struggling to die. Maybe that's what she meant.' Inquisition tag. Shep whump. John S/OC - see shepsgirl72's Deliverance trilogy and A/N. Warnings: torture/profanity. *grins whumpily*
1. Chapter 1

**POKER NIGHT**

A/N - Many thanks to the very gracious** shepsgirl72** for allowing me to borrow her OC, Sarayah, and also for her swift beta. Mwah, poppet! Bear in mind I tweaked my humble offering endlessly since her once-over, so all remaining mistakes are mine. Srsly, treat yourselves, whumpers, and go read **shepsgirl72**'s trilogy, Deliverance, right here on ff dot net. I promise you won't be sorry. Anyway, this is my take on Inquisition. It's effectively a tag, I guess. *shrugs* If I owned the franchise, this is totally what would have gone down. I mean, a freakin' dungeon, right? Hello? Like, freakin' duh, right? What else could possibly signal the yummy prospect of delish if not gratuitous Shep whump? All wrapped up cozy in a bit of a story line? Five chapters in total, whumpers, and I intend to post every other day. Just to keep you all on tenterhooks. Y'all are okay with that, right? Oh, by the by, you might want to line yourselves up some cold showers towards the end... XD (Nothing explicit, mind you, as I'd rather not have to up the rating.)

oooOOOooo

Ch 1

_Way to get captured, John!_

He'd let himself get snagged by a freakin' Genii harpoon. Again. The odds were pretty much like being struck by lightning twice in a lifetime, and he briefly wished he'd been a betting man. Granted, he was always the last one through the gate, taking six and getting his team to safety, but this was getting old. He had done a back flip, and face-planted yet again, but this time instead of landing on soft grass, he'd smacked his forehead on a rock. And his left knee. He'd hoped he hadn't bust his ACL. Again. It sure felt like it. He lifted his head to check if his team had gotten through the gate. Luckily he didn't feel anything as his head dropped back onto the rock. It had been instant lights out.

He was currently lying on his right side, both hands tied behind his back. It felt itchy and scratchy, like coarse rope. He was blindfolded but not gagged. Thankfully. The blindfold felt tacky, like it wasn't clean. He suspected that was the least of his worries. He held his breath. There was no sound, not even of his own breathing. He was alone then. He was lying on grass, judging by the softness, dampness and smell. Huh. Then he remembered his team had gone through the gate ahead of him, and he felt instant relief.

So, what of him? His body was damp. His feet were freezing. No boots. Crap. He scrubbed one foot against the other, expecting the softly yielding feel of cotton yet finding the familiar scrape of his own rough skin - no socks either. In fact, no BDU pants. Huh. He felt for the equally familiar if not reassuring feel of his boxers, his fumbling fingers finding purchase on the elasticated waistband and inside label. Still there. He breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't feel the comforting weight of his tac vest, and he was pretty certain he'd lost his shirt, too. His arms were chilled, as were his bare legs. So, tee shirt and boxers and blindfold, oh my. He wondered if he still sported his dog tags. Without them, he would really feel naked. Heck, he'd even feel naked without his wristband and watch. He strove to sense his tags against his chest. Yep, still there, nestling against his collarbone, cold against his chilled skin. Okay, so where was he? His answer came as he was hauled upright by his elbows, and the blindfold was ripped from his face.

He was looking up at some scrawny-assed Dark Ages castle complete with turrets and arrow slits. Great. He rummaged through his own internal search engine for correct terms for castley shit, but they all eluded him for now. He almost expected some Norman knight to appear from the ramparts to taunt him a second time in an outrrrazheous French accent. Yeah, yeah, yeah. His mother was a hamster and his father smelled of elderberries. Yada yada yada. Blah blah blah. So what? Get over it. For his part, he'd seriously like to fart in someone's general direction. Right now, that was about all the ammo and firepower he had.

Looking up turned out to be a bad idea. His head was already pounding, and now his eyeballs decided to play ping pong. He seriously felt like puking. Blood was still trickling down his forehead, down the side of his nose and even into his mouth. Okay. That meant he might not have been taken through too many gates since his head injury hadn't let up. But precisely when had they stripped him down to his tee and boxers? At least his dignity was intact. He prayed his virtue was, too.

John was being pushed along by at least two goons. He didn't dare turn his head to look at them for fear of ramping up his headache, so he stared straight ahead instead. He had no idea who they were or what they wanted from him. Yet. He heard the familiar squeal of wheels, and the equally familiar sound of hooves on cobblestones. That or some dumb-fuck or other was banging coconut halves together. So, he'd arrived by horse-drawn cart. He felt like he'd arrived by tip-up truck.

They tramped across a drawbridge over some moat. Funny how people tended to march in time. John broke formation, and marched along in counterpoint. He smirked inwardly as they tried to match him stride for stride. Idiots. Well, that kind of precision marching could bring down a bridge, guys. Though maybe not a drawbridge. Still, it was fun messing with their heads. By their grumbles of protest, he knew he had them. John barely suppressed a gloating smirk. Step, shuffle, slide, stride, stagger. He really should apply to the Ministry of Silly Walks. If he ever got outta here.

They entered a courtyard as one through a portcullis gate. Oh, yeah. Dark Ages all right. Crap. Dungeons. Double crap. John tried not to let his imagination run wild, but began to think of all the torture equipment he was trying to block from his mind. Rack. Thumbscrew. Iron maiden. Oh, god. Way to be an asshole, John! Now he wished he'd never read history books or watched period movies or even Monty Python. Did they maybe take off the blindfold just to intimidate him? The answer was most likely a resounding yes.

They went through an imposing wooden door. John tried to keep track of where they were taking him, but to bottom -line it - zigging turned into zagging and vice versa, and they were headed down, down, down. Torches lit the stone corridors, to be replaced by red-hot braziers as they went further and further away from any source of natural light. Finally they came to a halt.

_Aw, crap…_

John's bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he was shoved into a sparse cell. He saved himself from slamming into the far wall, no thanks to the fact his hands were still tied behind his back. He thanked his natural agility and co-ordination, honed over the years via his love of surfing and skateboarding, otherwise he would have been looking at a wipe-out that might have ended in a bloody nose and two black eyes rather than a belly flop. He was already roughed up enough. He spun on one heel, and merely grazed one bare arm on the rough stone. Small mercy. He turned to face his captors, and screamed his defiance as they slammed the big-assed iron gate shut, then locked him inside.

"This is just! Not! Right!"

He still didn't know who they were. He scanned the cell, taking great care not to make any further sudden moves of his head. The cell walls swirled about him like he'd been on some drunken bender. He saw flagstone walls, a stone bench, and the iron gate, which was arched, with spikes atop the vertical bars. Beyond that, there was a single tall brazier with torches either side. There were pokers heating up in the brazier, red hot almost to the wooden handles. He spotted several arrays of shackles and manacles and - oh, god - whips? Whuh? Holy shit. He was screwed beyond belief.

John spied the red drapes. Uh oh. The cell was oddly familiar. Cell? No, dungeon. His mind filled in other occupants. His team. When his mind supplied Woolsey, he reluctantly conceded that this was where they'd all been incarcerated awaiting that dumb Coalition trial. They had been gassed into unconsciousness, accused of crimes against the peoples of the Pegasus Galaxy, and ultimately acquitted, thanks to Woolsey's willingness to play dirty. So why would he be right back here? Unless - shit! Despite being a math whiz, he hoped two plus two equaled five in this instance. Otherwise, he was in the middle of a seriously freaky replay, destined for a way nastier outcome.

For want of a better plan, John dragged his aching bones over to the stone bench, and sat down. He was tired, sore, weak, hungry and thirsty. He looked around for food or water. Nope, nothing doing. That left tired, sore and weak. He felt himself drifting off, his eyes closing against his will. Dealing with his fatigue sounded like a plan. He straddled the bench at one end, gingerly eased his already battered body down, and closed his eyes. His nausea had abated, and he reckoned he didn't have a concussion. He also didn't need to pee or take a dump. Yet. He rested a cheek against the stone. It was cooling, and soothing against - a bruise or three? He automatically tried to bring his hands up to check his face, but they were still bound behind his back. He shifted against the bench, his chest and belly scraping against the rough surface. A surfboard this wasn't. He told himself to stay positive, imagined himself on his stick, paddling out to catch a totally bitchin' breaker or even a tube, and, despite his predicament, John the surfer dude fell asleep feeling totally amped.

Cowabunga!

John the prisoner dude woke up almost in the same awkward position. He had lifted his head at some point, turned over in his sleep, and had settled on his other cheek. His shoulders were burning, and his fingers tingled from lack of circulation. His knees ached, pressed as they were either side of the bench, and his crotch was pretty much numb. Yep, Li'l Shep and the Boys had switched off. He didn't have to be a mind reader to know that pins and needles were in their future.

What really threatened to drive him nuts right now was an itch right in the middle of his cowlicks that he couldn't hope to scratch. Plus now he really did need to pee. He gave a little shimmy, easing the urge just by shifting position slightly. When were they coming for him? As if on cue, the gate creaked and groaned. John craned his neck to see who or what was causing the sound. A shadow fell across him, cast by that freakin' flaming brazier he'd rather forget existed.

"Get up."

"Make me," he muttered. Well, he did need a hand after all. What he got was a foot. The guard kicked him in the shins with booted feet.

"My pleasure. And his. And his. Now, get. Up."

_Great. Three of 'em._

"Yeah, yeah. I get it," John muttered wearily. He slid off the bench onto his knees, and used an elbow to push himself upright. He must've been too slow. One of the goons thwacked the back of his thighs with something long and thin and hard, slamming him into the edge of the bench. That had to leave a bruise on his hips. Thankfully, he didn't injure his groin.

"Ow! What was that for? You can see I'm getting up, for crying out loud!"

John flinched as a baton was brought down past his ear and onto the bench. The baton didn't break, but a chip flew up from the stone, and caught him just below his right eye. He was grateful for the near miss. He locked his knees, and hoped the goons wouldn't notice quite how shaky he was on his feet. He drew himself up to full height - at least as best he could manage - turned to face his tormentors, and acknowledged their dour presence with an upward nod and his best shit-kickin' grin.

"Approach the gate. Now!

John limped over to the gate. His knee still hurt, but at least he hadn't done any serious damage to it. Seems any inflammation had calmed down overnight, maybe due to the prolongued contact with cold stone.

"All right, already," he added with as strong a voice as he could muster. He felt reticent to step through the open gate, almost as if it might be a portal to somewhere less forgiving. Not that the dungeon was like a room in a resort, but still - crossing this particular threshold held bitter memories of relatively false accusations, though ultimately without repercussions. The whole sorry scenario culminated in a welcome victory cigar on the balcony, courtesy of Woolsey, though in the first place he had found himself on that balcony wondering about his own part in screwing up the galaxy.

He willed himself right back on the balcony, pretty much forgiving himself and the entire expedition for their own part in pissing off the Coalition and anyone else in Pegasus with an unwarranted, buck-passing grudge. He found himself on that balcony after many a mission. When in serious doubt, he would take himself some evenings to the east pier, and let the stars admonish him, and the twin moons judge him. By morning, he would be basking in the forgiveness of the sun.

Where was he now? The east pier maybe? It was never this roasting, not even on a summer's night. Who was lifting him? Had he fain- passed out again after skipping the infirmary for a post-mission check-up? Slumped in the corridor, mere moments from his quarters? He couldn't keep losing time like this.

No. Not the east pier. Shit. He was being dragged along familiar torch-lit corridors. He recalled the newly-founded Coalition tribunal of this past year. The fucking kangaroo court. One fair judge, one biased, one compromised. Why the 'retrial'? He stumbled into the courtroom, and was shoved onto the platform with the same old fancy-pants X-marks-the-spot. He looked up to see the dais with its three familiar yet unwelcome thrones.

"Bow!"

"Woof!"

"I said, 'Bow!'"

"Go to hell!" He looked away, feigning disinterest. He needed to set the tone here. Set the bar. He was reasonably innocent of any wrong-doing, after all.

John received another couple thwacks of that baton on the back of both legs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

It sent him sprawling. It was a wonder the damn thing didn't break any bones. He groaned and rolled over, only to tumble from the platform. Wipe out. Luckily it was a short drop, but it still knocked the wind out of him, and ratcheted his headache up from pounding to agonizing. Rough hands grabbed the back of his tee shirt, his hair, his wrists and ankles, even his goddamn boxers, and he was thrown back onto the platform, landing on his belly. He writhed, and flipped onto his back, struggling to suck in air. His vision sparked and grayed. He was hauled upright, just as he finally managed a sharp intake of breath. The goons slammed him into place, his belly button right on the goddamn X. Then they hauled him upright again.

"Kneel!"

"Bow. Kneel. Bow. Kneel. Face-plant. Make…up… your mind. You… a Wraith queen? If not - I don't… think so." John managed a defiant shake of his head, though it cost him. His head was going to explode any second. Maybe he could even pass out from the banging pain. Or at least puke on the fancy X. Make his mark. It made him feel like he was some moose in rut, but shoot, right now he honestly felt the need to clash antlers with somebody.

A goon grabbed his arms, and pushed them up his back. Since he was merely loose-limbed and not double-jointed, the only escape from being contorted if not mangled was to kneel. A second goon grabbed a generous fistful of hair, and pressed his still bleeding forehead against the floor. The first one was relentless in pushing his arms up beyond their natural limit.

_Way to piss off the bad guys, John._

Okay. Okay. He could make this work.

Doubling him over turned out to be a crappy idea. Well, more of a pukey idea. It merely forced minestrone soup up from his stomach. Not actual minestrone - just that puke always seemed to have diced carrots in it, whether you'd actually eaten them or not. He totally redecorated that fancy-assed X in three seconds flat. That earned him a thwack across his shoulder blades from the baton. John let out an involuntary grunt. The baton then struck the back of his head.

"Hey! Lay… off… " _the cowlicks._ His vision went from gray to white. Then everything went black.

John came to in a puddle of water. Well, not so much a puddle as a whole mess of rinsewater accumulated in grout lines. He turned his mouth towards it, and sucked in as much as he could. It was gritty, but nothing would stop him slurping it up. Nothing. He could hear the goons laughing, but he didn't care. As long as he wasn't lying in his own piss, he would slake his thirst until they hauled his sorry ass away from the ready supply, kicking and screaming. He wasn't on the platform any more, so maybe they'd thrown water over him to jerk him back to consciousness. Yep, that'd be it. Maybe they'd hosed away his vomit. Next thing he knew, he was on the goddamn X again, being manipulated back into a kneeling position. One goon yanked his head back by his hair, and he looked towards the dais through blurred vision. The thrones were occupied now. He could just about make out three caped figures. His head was still swimming. He looked down to ease his discomfort. The X was already becoming warped and discolored by his involuntary ministrations. Puke and bile would do that to fancy-assed wood inlay.

"So, you do know how to bow after all."

John attempted to look his judge in the eye, but he only managed to sway, then keel over onto his left side. Bile rose again in his throat, and he had no choice but to hhhoik it up. Damn! He needed that water. Still, his aim was spot on. The X. Bulls-eye. Yeah, baby! He lay still. If they wanted him upright, they'd have to hold him up. He was already spent, and he had the sinking feeling this was only just the beginning.

John grappled behind him with his fingertips, dug his bare toes into the wooden platform, and found sufficient grip to at least scrabble into a less vulnerable and fractionally more dignified position. Yep, still on his knees but just maybe a tad more defiant? Last time he'd been here, he'd stood four-square, hands on hips or arms folded, never taking his eyes off his accusers. John radiated defiance back then. He wasn't about to radiate defeat any time soon.

It killed him to focus on the threesome up there on the dais. Yet, there they were. Some kinda homogenous blob of monk-like wannabes hiding behind their robes and cowls, their heads bent in supplication. The middle monk and presumably the Chair, shucked off his robe. Nope, her robe. The woman in the middle had long, straight, brown hair. Her lips were tightly pursed, her eyes were heavy-lidded and pale. She sported some slinky mutton-dressed-as-lamb outfit. Pegasus faux-Rustic verging on post-cull Bohemian.

Shiana.

Shiana was the Chair.

Holy shit.

Of the Tribes of Xanax? Anthrax? Viagra?

Double shit.

He remembered how undeniably facetious he had been with her, and how he was oh, so holier-than-thou as he vehemently defended the Atlantis expedition's position. Still, according to Woolsey, her husband and children had been murdered by Replicators before her very eyes. She alone had survived. His team wasn't supposed to have gotten off scot-free by all accounts. The others maybe, but him, never. Not as the military leader of Atlantis. Shiana had been denied her pound of flesh. If she was pissy then, right now she was headed for an aneurism. The woman was beetroot with suppressed anger. Her lips were beyond pursed - they were pretty much being sucked into some digestive tract black hole vortex, and he decided she looked like she'd switched out her face with her ass.

John panned left. Then right. The other two remained hidden. Okay, so when was the big reveal coming? What was the big deal? So, they'd shuffled their positions like that dumb sleight-of-hand trick. The one where the conjurer rapidly switched three downturned tumblers in a blur. He wondered which cape would have the nut underneath. Probably all three. Win-win.

A rustle of fabric to Shiana's left made him squint to see who was next. Kelore of Latifah? Dimas of the Free Peoples of Reba? What? Sora? No way! They had to be shitting him. Grudge. No question there. Either daddy or the fifty-some Genii he'd taken out during the siege way back when. Or both. At least he knew where he stood with her. She looked no different from when he'd innocently admired her, and congratulated her on her engagement. Daddy had pounced on him like he'd been about to challenge the suitor to a freakin' duel. He realized he never did bother to find out what had happened to her after her release. It was an oversight that was clearly about to bite him in the ass.

He panned right, slowly, as his head was still spinning and tumbling. The third and final judge was shucking off his or her cape.

Her cape.

_Nooo… _

Grudge times infinity and then some …

There was no way he would come out of this with his balls intact, metaphorical or otherwise. The third judge was - Sarayah of Medulsa. Somehow, that brazier now burned hotter and brighter than even that fucking volcano planet.

John struggled upright, though it took a few tries, and stared defiantly into the collective face of his three tormentors. He was already pretty certain by now he was unlikely to be treated as cordially as first time around - what was his first clue? - but this really took the fucking cake.

"You! But - you're dead!" He wanted to tell her to kiss his lily-white ass, but then realized she might very well take him up on the offer.

"My, what is this? You're not happy to see me, John? And after all that wonderful quality time we spent together. I'm disappointed in you. I see it's high time we got reacquainted."

Man, she was cheery.

"Go to hell," he repeated inanely, and for good measure, he added, "bitch." Most likely not his best opening argument for the defense, but still, it bucked him up immensely, merely to have had the chance to call it like it was. The woman was the biggest fucking bitch in the universe. Sarayah made Larrin look like Mary Poppins, and that was saying something.

"John, John, Johnny John-John." She leaned over the dais. She somehow managed to rest her twin upper assets on the rim, like two Big Macs to go. "Johnny Boy, you wound me," she declared.

When did she pull the Sekkari AI's freaky monicker for him from his brain? Sarayah pouted much like Sora's fixed expression, but then she blew him a kiss. He wanted to tell her to fuck off, but that would serve no purpose. He had to hope. Yeah, hope. Hope he could win Sora around. Maybe even Shiana, or at least gain an abstention. As for Sarayah, the die was cast. Or was it? He could maybe even win her around, conjuring up some rabbit from his proverbial hat - his best puppy dog eyes? - that little trick often worked to his advantage.

John tried not to think of all the times he had duped Elizabeth. Then again, she had most likely always been onto him, judging by that perpetual knowing look of hers. Anyway. Trick. Yeah, trick. He could trick Sarayah, woo her into setting him free, but he might have to resort to being suggestive, handing himself to her. This was looking more and more convoluted. And creepy. He wasn't sure whom he could rely on to vouch for him, take him at his word. His predicament was made all the more sorry by his current propensity for fain- passing out from manly… manly… manly what? Rodney would cackle his ass off. He might yet faint from not-so-manly wussiness. John was already beat, hungry, defeated. Wrecked. And they hadn't really even begun.

He'd already been weighed, measured and found wanting. John's stomach did a back flip.

He looked from Shiana's sour puss, to Sora's indignant pout to - Sarayah's stump rather than her double take-out order. He usually only revisited freaky amputation scenarios in his nightmares. This was for real. And he'd unwittingly played a major part in the disfigurement of her whip hand. Her sly grin told him his balls were about be handed back to him on a plate at the next full moon sacrifice. Them and Li'l Shep. That had to be the only reason she could possibly have for that sultry look on her face.

"I'm ambidextrous these days, John." Sarayah winked.

The bitch actually winked! Fuck. Was he supposed to take that as accepting of her condition, or the fact she'd been practicing her strokes, and was still pretty darn good at thrashing the male of the species despite her handicap?

"I also possess a prosthesis. Or two. Or three." Sarayah lifted her right stump for him to see. She made a quick twisting motion against the stump with her left hand. Great. She could screw in the handle of a cat-o'-nine-tails into that tube where her sorry bones used to be. Unless it was a bayonet fitting.

"What, you don't like my whip-handle slot?"

Now she was a mindreader.

"'I'll let you screw it in." Sarayah winked again.

"I'll pass. Thanks all the same."

"You don't care to fill my slot, John?" She winked yet again.

"I don't play the slots. Can we maybe get this over with?" he drawled. He'd rather fit a bayonet into her slot, but he kept that thought to himself.

"So we meet again, Colonel Sheppard." Back to Shiana. Sora just sat there, pouting away like her life depended on it. Gah, cliché. He hated those. He wished Woolsey were here to bail him out. Still, a cliché was only a cliché from overuse.

"A Little clichéd, doncha think?" he declared with a smirk, despite himself. He really needed to work on his material for days like this. He really should snag himself several guidebooks to the Pegasus Galaxy. 'How Not to Piss Off The Natives,' and its companion compendium, 'How To Totally Piss Off The Natives."

"'Cliched'? 'Cliched'? You - insult me? With your… non-Pegasus references? As if we should all be acquainted with them, and fall short of your expectations when we are not familiar with them? You believe I am to understand you, even as you refuse to understand me?"

John decided to not mention how he was beat up, tied up, and couldn't order a pizza if he wanted to. He clamped his mouth shut. He felt light-headed. Uh oh. As he sank involuntarily if not unceremoniously onto the puke-warped X-Marks-The-Spot once more, and subsequently passed out from an accumulation of abuse, fatigue and lack of food and water if not from avoidance, he conceded shutting the hell up was most likely his best damn decision of the day.

oooOOOooo


	2. Chapter 2

The floor he was lying on face down was cold and unyielding. He could feel the bite from it through his skin all the way to his bones. So, not the wooden platform then. Orange light filtered through his closed eyelids. Back in the cell, maybe? He flickered one eye open, and peeked through his eyelashes. He didn't want his captors to know he was fully awake. At least not until he had fully assessed his predicament. It was hard not to squirm, especially as he was still bound, and he fought to not take in a sharp breath, though he might have let a small whimper escape his lips.

He'd been stripped down to his boxers. By the way his chest and belly itched and stung, chances were he'd been dragged along and away from the court room like some old Hoover after losing his tee and not before. He sure as hell didn't remember walking. More injuries. More lost time. Great. He was outside the cell, and hadn't remembered arriving there. So, why wasn't he inside? Maybe they wanted him awake to fully appreciate the effect of being shoved through the gate. Maybe there was to be no respite.

John allowed his thoughts to drift morbidly towards the brazier and those accompanying red hot pokers. He recalled the whips coiled decoratively either side of the red drapes in a funky retro dungeon chic sort of way. He decided to play possum a while longer. It was then that his captors decided playing possum was not an option.

"He's awake."

Now, how come he heard a hint of glee in that voice? Which one was it? Judging by their exuberance at his capture, it - could be any single one of 'em.

"Come now, John. You still expect to fool me? You - still believe me to be that stupid." Sarayah affected an injured sniff. "Again you wound me. And you forget I know every inch of you inside and out."

_No, Sarayah. _You_ wound _me!_ Inside and out, _he wanted to say, but he thought better of it. He reminded himself that by 'inside', she meant mentally. Metaphorically. Nothing else. He shuddered. Sarayah chuckled. Always with the innuendos. Bitch.

"Lift him." Sora.

_Here it comes. The Bad-Ass Shove. _

John snapped his eyes open as he was hauled upright by two of the goons. The third was opening the gate. No, he was locking it. What gives? The two goons answered his mental plea by untying the… what? Ah, yeah. Rope. From around his wrists. He instinctively wanted to rub his wrists, rub away the pain and discomfort, but they yanked his arms in front of him, and slapped on manacles linked by a short chain. They then lifted him up by his arms - and hooked his spanking new chains over the spikes of the gate. Shit. That left John dangling, facing the gate and the gloom of the cell, and feeling the heat of the brazier on his exposed back. He scrabbled to find purchase for his bare feet. There was a cross bar at the bottom of the gate, and he rested his feet on it, taking the weight off his arms. Thankfully, they didn't kick his feet out from under him. Seems they were prepared to allow him that much. Which ultimately meant they ultimately meant business.

"You are now fully aware of who we are."

"Lemme think. The knights who say, 'Ni!'?" John raised an eyebrow.

"John Sheppard, you and the other filthy Atlantian usurpers faced several charges, but were sadly acquitted."

"Yeah, well, lady, y'see, here's the thing - that's how _legal_ trials work." He could mentally feel his restrained hand jab twice towards her.

"Subterfuge! My weaker male colleagues were duped!"

"Double jeopardy."

"What?"

"Can't be charged with the same crime twice." He grinned. His grin was destined to be short-lived.

"Another of your… _oh_ so superior concepts?"

"No." John chewed his lower lip. She wasn't buying it. He tried again. "It's a valid concept, tried and true."

John tried to turn to face Shiana, offering his best whipped puppy look, only to have his face slammed against the bars. John groaned. He could feel the blood already matted and dessicated in his bangs begin to flake off, and he watched, wide-eyed, as it flurried in slo mo to the stone floor.

"Your wiles will not work against us! You will look upon us when we give you permission to do so. And when we order you to do so."

"What's with… the royal 'we'?" His breath hitched. Damn! He was giving away too much; that he feared them.

Double, double, toil and trouble…

"We are three, as you well know. And you have been found guilty by all three of us. The decision this time was thankfully unanimous. Your punishment will be at each of our hands over the course of three days and as each of us sees fit, but no single punishment will be sufficient to kill you. You will be permitted to recover in between."

Somehow John wasn't expecting girlie slaps. He was grateful his team had made it. Rodney couldn't even handle splinters, and Teyla had Torren to be whole for. Ronon could handle anything John could, but still, he didn't want Ronon hurt any more in his young life. Ronon was like a little brother to him as much as a buddy, and he felt the need to protect him from further abuse. Ronon had lost seven years, the bulk of his fucking twenties. When he should have been studying and partying then partying some more, not running from scary monsters.

"We shall each state our grievances against you, whereafter you will take your punishment, and thereafter be left alone to ponder upon your crimes, collective and individual. Sora will begin. Open the gate."

One goon held the gate as another unlocked it. As the gate swung back, John fully expected to body-slam into the stone wall. Instead he discovered where the third goon was. Right behind him. Against the wall. That goon grabbed his hair, and shoved his face between the bars.

"John Sheppard, you now have our permission to look upon Sora of the Genii."

Sora strode up to him, planted her tiny hands firmly on her slim hips, and spat in his face. The woman was clearly wired, but damn, she was cute.

"I was repatriated, Sheppard. Yet Cowan deemed me compromised, and with my father no longer alive to vouch for me, I had no advocate." She sneered, then snarled, then gave a sharp intake of breath, much like a kitten having its first hissyfit, and shocking even itself at its own propensity for ire.

John must've inadvertently shot one of his annoying lop-sided grins, as Sora reached through the bars, grabbed both his ears, and yanked his head forward. John gasped. Between the goon and her and those bars, his head wasn't going anywhere. At least it was still on his neck. For now.

"You and that… that Athosian bitch! - were instrumental in my father's death, and you… you personally caused the death of sixty innocent Genii - "

"Fifty-five. And not so innocent." John ground out. He returned her expression, sneer for sneer.

Sora made a piffing sound. " - and later, the demise of Commander Kolya." She practically hopped on the spot.

"You know… what happened. You Genii… you brought it on yourselves." He nearly called them all dumb.

"Just as you bring this on yourself. Sixty strikes of the cane." Sora took in a sharp intake of breath. Like she was about to perform, and needed to gather herself. She rubbed her hands together. He guessed she was reticent, despite the fact she was effectively going for gold.

"You forgot the chalk powder."

"Close the gate."

_Aw, crap. Here we go_… he thought as he swung back into place.

The gate clunked shut, and he heard the lock click. John braced himself. He couldn't see what was coming, but he was certain it would -

- hurt like a bitch! Ow! That struck the small of his back. Sixty? She had to be kid-

Umph! That whack across his right shoulder blade slammed him into the gate. The fucking thing rattled on its hinges, and the ensuing vibration jangled through him like a tuning fork.

The next strike landed on his thighs. Both at once. Whuh? Was this going to be random? How could he possibly brace hims-

"Ow!" _Shut the hell up, John! _

That strike caught him on the nape of his neck. He felt a burning sensation radiate outwards from each strike, and as the strikes continued to fall in rapid succession - against his flanks, his arms, even his ass - they began to meld into one huge throbbing sting.

Sora whalloped the back of his head, and he felt sure that blow had taken a swath of skin away along with a clump of hair. He wasn't vain per se, but he hoped that wasn't a cowlick she'd taken out. Those things were part of his individuality. Part of who he was. His identity.

Her relentless assault wasn't systematic by any means. He had no clue where the next strike would fall, and that made it hurt all the more. He knew he'd be bruised and welted from head to toe after this. He began to tremble, and struggled not to make a sound by sucking in his lips. Pretty soon, he thought he might not be able help himself as the pain ramped up as the strikes began to overlap. This fucking hurt! It fucking hurt! Yeah, he had a high threshold for pain, but this - this took the… the… thhh...

He had passed out. Way to go, John! Wuss!

_Wuss!_

"Wuss!" Had he said that out loud?

He realized he was writhing and twisting and squirming. His clue was the blood crawling in a mucoid, lazy caterpillar fashion down his arms from those manacles. Now he could add abraded wrists to the list of injuries. At least his feet were still unscathed, and he thanked his lucky stars that he was even still on his feet. Then - it stopped. The abuse stopped. John's entire back half was ablaze. That brazier wasn't helping.

"Do you have anything to say, John Sheppard?"

"Go. To. Hell."

"Feet."

"Wh-whuh?"

Enough with the mind-reading, already! John tried to turn his head. Oh, god, no. Surely they wouldn't beat the soles of his feet! That was just plain sick and wrong. He didn't deserve any of this! He had to concede his whipped puppy look was no longer fake.

A Marine-like goon gripped his right ankle, and wrenched his foot from between the bars, bringing his leg up behind him and shoving it almost to his right butt cheek. John knew what was coming, and decided this might be really a good time to pass out again. He scrunched his eyes shut, hoping for oblivion. Then he heard a swishing sound as Sora brought the cane down hard. Again and again and again.

And again and again and again and again.

Until all he knew was he somehow dwelt somewhere even further south of his belt than he'd ever before considered.

"Nngaah!" _Holy… f-_

John tried to pull away, only succeeding in tearing more skin from his wrists. It hurt, but that was nothing compared to the agony building up in his other extremities. She struck his foot ten times. His head was swimming from the pain, and it was all he could manage to withhold a scream. Then the goon dropped his leg. He couldn't risk bringing his damaged foot back up to rest on the bar, and so John hung off-kilter as his right leg swung listlessly, and his left arm bore the brunt of his weight.

He wasn't about to beg for mercy, but his left arm was being yanked from its socket. To even out or divide and conquer the discomfort, he considered bringing his left foot off the crossbar. The decision was made for him when another goon or maybe the same one grabbed his left ankle, manipulated his foot up and behind him, and John screamed as much as in agony as in anticipation of the next bout of torture. There were some ten strikes coming to him on the sole of his left foot. Instead, Sora tickled him. Whuh? She zig-zagged the tip of the damn cane lightly over his sole from his heel to his big toe, making him twitch and jerk as badly as if she'd beaten him.

Torture in the Pegasus Galaxy was pretty much like torture in the Milky Way. He'd seen the aftermath of badly beaten feet, and it had made him vomit his last meal. He couldn't face burgers for at least a month after that enlightening little piece of video doc designed as a wake-up call as to what they might come across in special ops. They were all told to suck it up, which was easier said than done.

Right now, he wished he could turn to face his tormentor, and puke all over her. As it was, there was nothing much in his stomach beyond rinsewater and bile, so the effect wouldn't be quite so _messagey_ as minestrone all over her pristine strawberry blonde curls. Thing is, his stomach got the message all right. John barfed all over one of the goons, which earned him a kidney punch. And twenty-plus strikes on the sole of his left foot. At least, he thought it might have been twenty. At fifteen, he finally passed out, only to have a pail of freezing cold water thrown over him, which shocked him into wretched awareness. The water cascaded down his body, and reached his right foot. It was soothing. It was bliss. Conversely, he felt the water drip from his bent left knee bypassing his foot, and straight to the fucking floor.

"Fifty down, ten to go."

Ten. He couldn't handle ten. No way. He had no idea where she would hit him next. Every inch of him hurt. There was no spot of unabused skin left on him. He didn't dare think about his groin area. But he did. Damn! He felt like a Ghostbusters extra who'd just chosen the form of the Destructor.

He did the math. No groin injury... no groin injury... no groin injury... equals fucking groin injury!

Still they were only abusing his back and not his front. Li'l Shep was out front. Along with the Boys. John heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ah, Sheppard. You believe me done? Another twenty to go and then we are done."

No! He'd miscounted? Shit! They were deliberately confusing him! Which presenting part of him wasn't injured? Oh, holy Mother of -

"Gho-o-odddh!"

"You invoke… a deity? Like you deserve one to intervene on your behalf? John Sheppard, as I wield this cane for the last time, I tell you now that the god of gods, the god of the Genii and its illustrious allies, is on our side!"

_Shut the hell up, Sora! You're beginning to sound just like Shiana._

That was when John lost it. He'd heard enough crap in his lifetime. Been dealt enough crap. He was burning and aching and throbbing from head to toe. It wasn't so much that it hurt, it was more that it was impossible to switch off from the pain. It was invasive. All-pervasive. All-encompassing. It denied him coherent thought. The only way out was oblivion, and that just wasn't his way. He wanted to stay alive. To live. Pain told him he was still alive, but life was to be lived. To its fullest. And constant invasive pain only offered existence.

Time to hitch a ride outta here.

John felt himself slowly cease to exist from his arms and legs inwards towards the pit of his stomach. Almost as if he had once blazed with the vitality of a newborn star, only to collapse in upon himself, exhausted, spent - a black hole. And become a singularity. Yet even then, he was a precious spark of creation, an immutable soul with self-awareness, self-determination, self-purpose at its core - all of which was being ripped from his increasingly damaged body by a waning star in some eternal dance of give and take, yin and yang, black and white, good and evil. All in a countdown from - Ten… Nine… Eight…

As the final blows - the death throes, the birth pangs - delivered an incongruous orgasmic paroxysm of both ecstasy and agony, 'I' shifted, and regathered stardust, and its molecules came together slowly over the millennia. At the same time and in an instant - 'I' returned to the core of its old, dying body, only to be incarcerated therein. All he knew of was the here and now, and right now, he was the absolute embodiment of pain. It - he - whatever he was - uttered words.

If his soul couldn't escape his current predicament, then perhaps his words could if nothing else. He opened his mouth, and let the words flow intermittently like partially with-held urine down his legs.

"S-Sixty? You… coulda rounded 'em… down… instead of… up."

John woke up sometime later under the stone bench. His 'comfy chair'. Hah. He must've crawled there for some pathetic semblance of shelter or comfort. He fell into sentimental musings to take himself away from the here and now…

Johnny remembered picking out a cute, fluffy, white kitty from the local Humane Society when he was almost seven and three-quarters and Davey pretty much nine and a half. Snowflake was huddled under some plastic chair, possibly hoping not to be eaten like some TV dinner. He and Davey nearly didn't pick her, as at first they honestly didn't care to disturb her. She was recovering from some kind of operation. They had no idea what 'spayed' meant, and by unspoken mutual consent punctuated by shared wide-eyed, grim-faced looks and knowing nods, for some reason they didn't dare ask the grown-ups - and in any case they'd come for a dog. But disturb her they did. And she turned out to be affectionate beyond belief. Endlessly grateful for her rescue. It was almost as if Snowflake had swallowed a Disney pill. They took home a scruffy lab/wolf hound mix called Casey several weeks later, and their lives revolved around rescue mutts and thoroughbred horses from there on out. Snowflake, a 'domestic' (mutt) medium-hair, had been their one and only cat. And to think they'd nearly walked by her in favor of a showy Siamese.

But that was precisely what he must've hoped his captors would do while he was in some incoherent, incognizant state. He conceded he was already pretty pathetic. Like some surrendered pet. He ruefully imagined his own adoption papers. 'Medium-hair Shepherd/Irish setter mix, approx 40 years old, answers to the unimaginative name of Shep.'

Still, it was one down, two to go. He wondered what Shiana might want to do to him. She'd lost her husband and children. Her family. Her legacy. He guessed she'd never remarried. Thoughts of how maybe a damn good humping would readjust her attitude came unbidden into his dirty mind. The other side of him, the clean side, prayed 'children' meant just two, for her sake as much as his. His punishment at her hands would be a minimum of three… three… somethings. What was she planning? All he had that came in a threesome was Li'l Shep and the Boys. If they were her target of choice, then he stood no fucking chance of not dying on the spot if she took a shot at them before Sarayah decided to take them out.

John crawled slowly back out from under the bench in search of food and water. He looked about him in the light of that ominous brazier to see - nothing. He gingerly checked the topside of the bench. Paydirt! A chunk of dry bread, and hallefuckingluyah - a bowl of water. It looked clean, too. He sniffed it. It smelled sweet. Untainted. John put his face to the bowl rather than the other way around. He didn't trust his hands not to shake and spill the precious fluid. He knelt beside the bench, braced his hands on it, bent his head, and lapped the water like a dog. He almost spared some to dab on his abused body, but he kept going back to the bowl for just one more drop until he was more likely to leave saliva in the bowl if he insisted on licking it dry. He broke bread, and shoved it in his mouth, wishing he had more water to wash it down with.

Feeling a little more refreshed, he gingerly ran his fingers over his injuries. The ones on his back had calmed down a tad, but not so his feet. There was no way he could stand up. It would be like walking on bloody stumps. Gah... Shit! He sat slumped over on his still sore ass, brought his legs towards his body, and lifted his right foot onto his left knee. It was red-raw and swollen. His left foot was even worse. It looked more like tenderized meat. It was then that tears filled his eyes. He knew from cruel, but this? Sora. She did this to him. And he still had to face his so-called punishment from Shiana and - holy fuck! - Sarayah. Had he technically recovered sufficiently for them to come for him? Take their grievances out on him some more?

The tears spilled down his cheeks, and he scrubbed them away with the back of his hand. He tried to think of all the people who cared about him, who wouldn't hurt him. Who loved and respected him. That in turn hurt in a different way. John realized he was already a mess both inside and out - which made him think of Sarayah. His stomach did a flip flop, but he managed to keep the bread and water down. John lay low on the stone floor, and somehow resisted the urge to crawl back under a stone to lick his wounds like the beaten cur he was.

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N - decided to post a day early. Hope you don't mind. ;-D

oooOOOooo

Maybe they decided he needed two days of recovery instead of just the one. Wow. He ate their bread and drank their water in brooding silence. He still couldn't stand up. He had to drag himself to the farthest corner to take care of business in a pile of straw they'd dumped sometime while he was out of it. If that was meant to be his bedding, it was just too bad. He couldn't lie on it in any case with no blanket to cover it. Straw would only exacerbate his injuries, scrape them and scratch them if not downright poke and prod. He hadn't been taken out on potty breaks like first time around. He slept under the stone bench, his 'comfy chair', on the bare floor. Occasionally, he dozed while propped up against the wall, his bare legs sticking straight out in front of him. The cold stone floor was soothing to his ass and thighs. When it grew too cold, he dragged himself out from under the bench and slept against the gate, as near that damn tantalizing brazier as he could get. As one side of him grew warm, he'd turn himself like a chunk of meat on a rotisserie grill. He cringed at the metaphor. It was way too accurate.

The goons kept the brazier going, occasionally stoking it with the pokers and grinning at him, wiggling their eyebrows. John kept his head down. He didn't want to appear too defeated, but he was exhausted. Plus his neck still twinged from one of Sora's random strikes. He tried rolling his head. It hurt, but if the welts were beginning to heal, they needed to do so with minimal scarring and maximum flexibility. He dug his heels into the stone floor and managed a few sit-ups. He eased over onto his belly, and attempted some push-ups since his toes were miraculously uninjured, for which he was grateful. It was low level exercise, but he had to take charge of his own physical therapy. He knew that might mean that they'd come for him, but he found himself antsy enough to get this crap over with. Yep, he was recovering if he was at the antsy stage. Had he been in the infirmary, he would be begging by now to be allowed a wheelchair to get around. Crutches would be out of the question.

He forced himself to flex his feet as the raw welts had calmed down, and had even stopped bleeding. He found he could twitch them, and even wriggle his toes. He could have cried with relief. He sniffed, and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to prevent another sorry display of tears. He doubted he would be able to walk any time soon, but hey, this was a start. He decided to stay positive. He might even get to keep his commission. Maybe if he played up his injuries to these women, they would allow more and more time between his punishments. Maybe his team would find him soon. Maybe he could go home and lick his wounds, haven taken one for Atlantis.

Then they came for him. They blocked the warmth and light from the brazier, casting a Cerberus-like shadow across his prone body.

"You'll have to excuse me for not getting up, but I'm a little tied up at the moment," he quipped. Wow. He hadn't thought he'd had it in him. "So, whose turn is it to beat the crap out of me, huh?"

"Bring him."

The Wiggles hooked him up to the outside of the gate. Same old. This time, he didn't rest his feet on the crossbar. He just let himself dangle, though he considered using his toes for minimal purchase. It opened up the abrasions on his wrists, but that would happen anyway once he began to writhe in agony. At least it would save his feet from further damage. John closed his eyes, and let his head rest against a vertical bar of the gate. It soothed his forehead. For a brief moment. There was nothing he could do, and watching one of them prepare his next punishment wasn't going to help in any case. He kept his mouth tightly shut. It was then he wished he could also shut his ears. He heard the familiar crack of a whip. Sarayah? John flinched.

"You have been whipped before. I noticed the scars on your back. So, you will understand this when I tell you that this particular whip has five strips of leather."

Shiana? Shiana was going to whip him? On top of the cane welts? With some cat-o'-five-tails? Holy fuck! He was never going to come out of this alive! She had lost her husband and children. That was a minimum of three strikes. Fifteen lashes. He'd stopped bleeding, but his skin hadn't had time to heal yet and he was a mass of bruises from his neck almost to his knees.

"How many… children?"

"You have guessed the nature of your punishment correctly, John Sheppard. But why is it that only now you care to acquaint yourself with the extent of my loss? You cared little until today. Not once did you ask after them. Not! Once!" she spat.

She was right. He'd never bothered to find out. Same as he'd never bothered to follow up on Sora. He really was a piece of crap. As Shiana flitted past him, he almost wished he could block both nostrils as well as both ears. He still felt nauseous, and her heady perfume was assaulting his nose. He opened his eyes to ward off vomiting until he had a decent target, to find that Shiana had stepped inside the cell. She nodded to a Wiggle, who slammed the gate shut, this time without locking it. What was going on?

"John Sheppard, I find you complicit in the deaths of my husband and four children."

_Four…_ John winced.

"I see you understand that you will be struck a mere five times. But not by me." Shiana edged closer to him, and looked up through squinty eyes. John's eyes were equally squinty, but that was from pain and hunger and yes, fear. John was ready to admit he was fucking scared shitless.

"John Sheppard, you now have our permission to look upon Shiana of the Tribes of Santhal." She stepped closer. "I want to watch you as you are struck, John Sheppard. I want to see pain etched in your face. I want to sear the memory of today in my mind, and recall it at will. When my pain becomes too much to bear, I want to see yours."

"Who…?"

"Why, my strongest." She proffered her slyest, slittiest-eyed smile to date.

Shiana nodded to someone behind him. John braced himself as best he could, but when the first strike landed across his abused back, he let out an involuntary scream. He was already in agony, and there were four strikes to go. The whip tore open barely healed cuts from the get-go in a span from his shoulders to his flanks, and he could feel the blood flow instantly in rivulets down his back.

" ….rogue element… "

He thrashed and jerked - he couldn't help himself! - and although he tried to control his facial expressions, he knew that to be a losing battle. He was grimacing, blinking rapidly, and he knew his lips were twitching spastically. He summoned his best defiant glare at Shiana, and was surprised to see a sleezy smile from her that included her not-so-pearly whites.

John groaned. Shiana nodded in apparent satisfaction. John lifted his chin defiantly, and braced himself. The next strike came from his other side.

"…conspiring with the Wraith… "

That was when John projectile vomited, hitting Shiana full in the face. He grinned. There was potentially no other victory left him. The woman shook with rage, wiped herself down with a handful of straw, only to find it hadn't been used as bedding but as a latrine. John managed a chortle, which morphed into a scream as the next strike landed on the back of his legs. He panted heavily. Sweat poured into his eyes, stinging them. Snot poured from his nose, and he thought he might have bitten either his tongue or his bottom lip or both. John managed one last defiant glare at the bitter woman before him before his vision blurred, and he passed out, mercifully missing out on the next two strikes.

They must've thrown another pail of freezing water over him to awaken him, to force him to feel those last strikes. He was freezing. No, he was baking. The water - sweat? - evaporated from him. He was vertical. Horizontal. He was spinning. Rotating. Gyrating. Skewered. Impaled. On that rotisserie grill.

He was floating.

John called out for Carson, begging him for painkillers. He wanted the 'good stuff' to flow through his veins. He wanted to go home. He wanted a shower. A shave. He wanted a turkey sandwich and an ice-cold Bud to wash it down with. He wanted to stop writhing in a pool of his own blood. He couldn't take any more. He wanted to die. Right now. Or ascend. He called out for Teer and Chaya to take him. He wanted his dead parents to take him.

His mother was a sweetheart and his father smelled of pipe tobaccooo...

_Oh... Ohhh... Ohhh! Ohhh! Aaagh!_

"Aaagh!"

He didn't want to die at Sarayah's hands. Hand. What was she planning on doing to him? She not only held a grudge against him, she totally got off on his pain. Always did. Always would. He couldn't take another whipping. Not this soon. He knew this much of old. Then he remembered the pokers in the brazier. They hadn't been used yet. He had to find a way to kill himself. But he could barely think past the agony. It was turning him inside out. He willed himself off the spit, or maybe he'd even unskewered himself, and had floated away. He couldn't be sure. Either way, he was lying on the floor of his cell. He staggered over to the stone bench, managing to bloody his feet again in the process. Still, where he was going, he wouldn't need feet any more.

John knocked himself out by smacking his forehead on the bench.

He vaguely remembered water pouring down his throat, time and time again, and he spluttered in panic. They were waterboarding him! Without even giving him a sporting chance of taking a preliminary breath? No, wait! This was drinking water. Someone was lifting his head, helping him drink, as he couldn't do it on his own. John relaxed his guard a little. Every once in a while, along came more water, and even a little broth. Both tasted funny.

His mind was fuzzy. Maybe his drinks were laced with painkiller and antibiotics. They most likely wanted him fit enough to face his third and final punishment. Bitches. He could feel something soft against his abused skin. He cracked open one eye to see he was pretty much covered from head to toe in bandages in varying states of bloodiness from pink to red to brown. These seemed to be more or less saturated from day to day. Huh. He guessed they were being changed out at intervals, though he couldn't keep track. Mercifully, his feet had been wrapped up. He was still in the cell, but he was lying on a cot, his new 'comfy chair'. A single chain led from his right ankle to the cot like a surfboard leash, Pegasus style.

They flipped him from side to side occasionally, and rested him on his front but never on his back. At least not at first. Whenever he was on his front, he allowed his tears to flow into the sheet he had been placed on. He guessed they'd given him plenty of water then. Go figure. His arms were free, and he fumbled for his tags. Still there. He was still John Sheppard. At least for a while longer. He wondered how long that would last. The last he remembered of this John Sheppard dude was that he was being destroyed piece by piece. Destroyed and rebuilt. Only to be destroyed again single-handedly by Sarayah of Medulsa in the not-too-distant future.

He was in and out of lucidity for several days. They unraveled him intermittently like some hot potato prize. Occasionally someone dabbed at his back. He hadn't the strength to swat their hands away, though in his mind he tried. He glanced bleary-eyed at the cloths they used and wrung out in some pail of water. Milky yellow with pus. No blood. He guessed his injuries were weeping then. And infected. When they quit their ministrations, he guessed his injuries were crusting over nicely. Judging by the steady depletion of bandages, and the lack of fresh blood, he was recovering. Physically, at least. They even flipped him onto his back finally. His feet no longer felt like elephantine clumps under the blanket they finally deigned to give him. He kicked the blanket away, and spied his own regular bare feet. No bandages. That was too good to be true. He raised his head, straining to see the fresh pink skin on the soles of his feet, but even that movement proved too much, and he passed out again. He heard voices, sometimes whispering as if they were being remotely considerate, but mostly they were loud, as if they didn't give a damn if they disturbed their patient or not. Why should they? He was being healed only to be punished again.

Sometimes they spoke to him, but he chose to ignore them. He would turn his head away, only to have his head yanked back and up by his hair, have more tainted broth shoved down his throat. Some of them were gentle, tender, most of them weren't. He didn't bother trying to work out who was who. It really didn't matter. He deserved poor treatment. He really was the biggest piece of crap in two galaxies.

They lifted him occasionally to take a pee or a dump, and without ever opening his eyes, he performed for them like a pre-schooler once his sorry butt hit some cold pan or Li'l Shep poked a jug. It wasn't worth shit to argue. He doubted he would ever see Atlantis again, and he resigned himself to the fact that the last thing he would most likely ever see was Sarayah's cold eyes glinting in the flames.

"John Sheppard, you now have our permission to look upon Sarayah of Medulsa."

_That's where you're all wrong. It's Medusa. Medusa._

"You tried to escape, John."

Uh, no, lady. He really didn't. He'd been too caught up in struggling to die. Maybe that's what she meant. As he began to come to himself a little bit more, he realized where he was. Back on that damn gate. This time, he was facing outwards. He gamely attempted a defiant upward nod, only to find his head been secured to the gate by a brace. His arms were pulled out sideways, and a quick tug told him his wrists were still in manacles. The chains securing him were hooked over the first and last spikes. Worse still, his legs were spread apart. Oh, shit. He tried tugging his feet towards each other, and bring his knees up, both actions a vain attempt to protect Li'l Shep and the Boys. But he was still fucking shackled to the gate by his ankles.

There was also some kind of banding around his waist and chest. He couldn't glance down, but they both felt biting cold like the brace holding his head in place. So, metal then. He wasn't going anywhere. And this time, it was Sarayah's turn. She'd made sure he was more vulnerable than ever. He was facing the brazier. And those pokers. He wanted to shut his eyes, block everything out, but his gaze was drawn to the flames.

John realized he was panicking again, his chest heaving. He'd been near death for several days, but no, there was no escape. He wanted to kill Sarayah. but they would most likely see each other in Hell. With so much blood on his hands now, that was where he was headed. No question. That, or he was already there.

"Well, now. Seems you have guessed the nature of your third and final punishment at my hand, John. Yes, hand. Singular. I intend to make sure you remember what you did you me. What you took from me."

In his peripheral vision, he could see Sora and Shiana. No doubt waiting their turn for use of the communal eyeball. The Wiggles stoked the brazier as one. They still insisted on looking over at him, still wiggling their eyebrows like it wasn't getting old.

_Way to be bad-ass… _

The Wiggles quit their stoking, and stepped aside to allow Sarayah free passage. Sora and Shiana eyed each other, feigned a yawn each, and took their leave, flanked by the Wiggles. So, this was it. They were all abandoning him to Sarayah. It looked like none of them could stomach what she was planning to do to him. He was screwed. Bayoneted. Sarayah skittered over to him like Samara out of the TV, her long dark hair covering her face. When he saw what she was wielding in her stump, he sorely wished he could flick to a different channel.

'Poker night' was about to take on a whole new meaning.

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	4. Chapter 4

A/N - I hesitated to use the Biblical expression 'eye for an eye' as it has been long misinterpreted and maligned as a primitive concept. It does, in fact, refer to an ancient compensatory system whereby a plaintiff is awarded damages equal to the extent or value of his/her loss, and the concept is therefore conversely ahead of its time. It's not meant to be taken literally. Anyway, smart-ass stuff over. On with the tale. Enjoy! XD

Just a heads up here - fifth and final chapter should be up this coming Father's Day w/e.

oooOOOooo

_Ronon. Buddy. Now's a good time. To rescue me._

John's couldn't disguise the fact he was now shaking so badly, he was inadvertently rattling the gate. No-one else'd had ever had the capacity to do this to him, reduce him to a quivering wreck. Not Kolya. Not even Todd when he was merely Kolya's Wraith pawn. Not even his Taliban captors of some three weeks. At least he wasn't a gibbering wreck. Yet. He couldn't think how to play it. Heck, he could barely think at all. He was still sick, weak, restrained, and in a hell of a lot of pain. Should he keep her talking? Start up an exchange of witty repartee? Play it innocent? Yep, innocent. And keep her talking.

"So, what do you want from me, Sarayah?" _That you haven't already taken… Gah! Way to ask a leading question, John!_

"Come now. What makes you think I want anything from you that I haven't already taken?"

_Whuh?_

Sarayah rested her left hand on his bare chest, and ran her fingers over him, twirling his chest hair. She occasionally rested on a scab, rubbed at it absently, scratched at it, then looked up at him dreamy-eyed. She dug a nail under a dark, crusty one just below his collarbone, and picked it off, taking some hair with it. John winced. She was toying with him. He fought against looking away. Under other circumstances, she'd be easy on the eyes, like Sora used to be. Shiana, not so much. That one looked like a goosed turtle in freeze-frame.

"S-Stop that!"

"Stop what?"

_Reading my mind… _

"I'll stop only when you beg me to, John. You are being punished, remember? You only have to demonstrate contrition."

"Somehow… I doubt that."

"Really?" Sarayah raised the poker, and waved it over his chest, singeing his hair, causing him to flinch.

_Shitshitshit! _John sucked in his lips, and scrunched his eyes shut.

"Oh, come now. Don't be such a baby. Hair is dead. It has no nerve endings. Unlike other parts of the male anatomy, which I know from experience to be exquisitely sensitive." Sarayah ran her remaining forefinger along the waistband of his boxers from one hip to the other, then back to the middle, pulled it forward, away from his body, lingered a moment, then pinged it, leaving his boxers riding low on his hips.

_Please…_

John was not about to 'hang eleven'. Not that he would likely have any choice in the matter. She was getting to him, and she hadn't really done anything to him yet. This was - torture.

No shit, Sherlock.

Sarayah frowned at the poker in her handy-dandy pliers.

"I'll be back," she muttered.

_You have to be kidding!_

Now she was the fucking Terminator.

Sarayah shoved the poker back into the brazier, then turned to look at him with a knowing look on her face.

"The poker radiated away its heat, John. Are you by any chance trying to keep me talking?" she asked as she began to unscrew the pliers. She dropped them into some tote on the floor, and he heard the clang of metal against metal, and the stench of smoldering fabric. What the fuck else was inside the thing? Did he really want to know?

Sarayah sauntered back over to him, and chucked him under his chin with her stump, causing him to grunt. Well, it was more of a right upper cut than a chuck. Trust her to find a fresh area of him to bruise up.

"Quit trying to distract me, John."

"Had to try." He flashed a disarming smile.

"You still expect to charm your way out of this? Distract me until rescue comes?"

"I'm n-not trying… anything. I just - I just wanna… go home." There. He was being honest. At least he didn't beg for release.

"I have until dawn, John. Why don't we find out how much punishment you can take, and how much I can inflict?"

"Why… "

"Because you deserve this." A flicker of a smile crossed her face. "For what you did to me."

"You haven't yet told me… what you plan to do to me. At least… with Sora and Shiana, they both came up with… a finite punishment to fit... my so-called crimes. An eye for an eye." John sucked in a breath. He should never have mentioned eyes.

Sarayah blinked rapidly. That told him a great deal. It gave him his second wind. He stiffened, and as best he could, drew himself up to full height.

So, what is it, Sarayah? Huh? I put a skidmark on your adopted highway? Rain on your parade? Piss in your petunias?" Then something occurred to him. "You set this all up! Just to get back at me!" John rattled his manacles.

Her Mona Lisa smile morphed into a sneer. He was beginning to piss her off. Not good, not good.

"What do you want from me?"

"Whatever you are prepared to give freely. Willingly. To prevent what's coming next."

She turned her back on him, skipped over to her tote, crouched, then rummaged through it. He couldn't see what she was screwing in her slot this time. She leapt up, spun on her heel, and raised her right arm to flash him her latest implement. John did a double take. He knew exactly what or rather who would fit in that crab claw. He could feel a scream building up in his throat.

"Aaagh! Noooo!" He writhed and squirmed, and looked around frantically for a means of escape.

"Yes, John. I see you have correctly guessed the full extent of your punishment. If I can't have you, no-one can," and she snatched up the poker in her left hand.

"Please… " He was begging now. He didn't care. She'd broken him. She'd broken his balls before she even touched them. "Let me go." He was snivelling now.

"Aaand?" She grabbed the waistband of his boxers, and yanked them further down than was decent.

"I'll give you anything you want," he mumbled.

"Louder, John." She hefted the poker at eye level.

"I'll give you anything you want! Bitch!" He should never have called her that. Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God he should never have called her that.

"Not. Contrite. Enough."

"Jeez… "

John felt shriveling, cold metal near his groin even as he felt the first jab of that poker just below his sternum. He heard a sizzle as his flesh burned, and smelled barbecue. Then another sizzle below that then another below that then another and another down his arrow of hair like a succession of intergalactic gates and she paused at the midway station, thrusting her poker into his belly button as if for the duration of some perverse quarantine and smoke alarms shoulda gone off by now, and now she was on the second leg of the journey aiming below his belt, and Jesus H Christ on a bike, he was fucking screaming himself hoarse -

It stopped suddenly. He looked up at her through pain-filled, sweat-ridden eyes. His legs were shaking and his chest was heaving. If she closed that thing over on him…

"Good boy. Keep an eye on things. There's no-one around to throw cold water over you. All that remains to throw is the contents of the brazier."

She had him. She had him in those claws. Everything he was was now in her clutches. She had won. She owned him now.

"Snip, snip!" She waved her crab claws in front of his face, and clicked the halves together, then aimed for his balls again.

She planned to emasculate him. John's upper brain had sufficient mercy upon him to switch off before the deed was done. It didn't last. Somehow, he was drenched in freezing water rather than blazing coals. He shook off his fugue, and took stock of his lower brain. Li'l Shep and the Boys were still intact. Except now she was tracing a dotted line with the poker either side of his V down towards them, forming an arrow.

"K-Kill me."

"Soon, John." She loosened her inanimate grip on his balls. He sighed with relief, and she stepped back.

"I win, John. I own you. I will always own you."

She was right. She could read his mind. She owned him inside and out. Always had, always would.

"Dawn breaks, John. Have you learned your lesson?"

John nodded furiously. His owner appeared satisfied with his answer. She ripped off his tags and tossed them aside.

"You will never be free of me, not even on the day you die." Sarayah scuttled back to the brazier and the tote. More rummaging. More screwing. Even a little banging and scraping. She faced him, lumbered towards him, waving her pliers now, and a branding iron like Edward Fucking Scissorhands. Sarayah was a walking Swiss Army knife on steroids.

"Why, we might even spend eternity together. On my terms. Is that not a happy prospect? You and I forever."

John let his mouth fall open.

And then she began her assault in earnest.

The only difference between assault above his belt and assault below was that above proffered the incongruous admixture of agony and relief, and below only agony and despair. She pressed the silver dollar-sized brand into his skin right over the Wraith feeding mark, then tossed the iron aside. The clattering sound made him jerk. Just when he thought his nerves couldn't be any more fried, they fired and fired and fired. She then began to wrap his tags around his right wrist, using her pliers to clamp them in place. The bitch'd put them in the brazier. She clearly wanted him to feel the pain of the loss of her own right hand. It distracted him momentarily from his branding. He let his tears flow freely. His pride was shot to hell as much as his body.

"Do you want release, John? I can do that for you. Release you. I can release you. Beautiful release, John," she purred. She let her fingers do the walking along his right flank to his hip, then used the poker marks like stepping stones towards her goal. Her pliers were resting on his ass. He felt his butt cheeks tighten.

How was he supposed to answer that?' Release' as in let him go? Somehow he didn't think so. Still, he couldn't deny his new owner. His could feel his mouth begin to form a yes.

"No."

"You lie. You want me as I want you. Forever. You are just playing hard to get."

She stood before him, gripping him by his hips in one hand, pliers in the other. She played her one hand and her pliers up and down his flanks like he was some living accordion, running her fingers along his heaving ribcage, and even digging her nails into the tender, bruised skin on one side, and pinching it on the other. He prayed she knew nothing whatsoever about wind instruments. She knew plenty about string and percussion, so he wasn't holding out much hope on that score.

"One last chance, John. What is it to be?"

He couldn't give her an answer. As a rescue, it wasn't his place. He kept his eyes and mouth tightly shut, awaiting her decision as to his fate. This was it. Foreplay over. She owned him now. He was hers to toy with.

And that was when she shot him twice at point blank range.

oooOOOooo


	5. Chapter 5

A/N - ch 5 was growing too long, so here's the first half at a convenient break. Ch 6 will be posted over the w/e. Hope you like! XD

If anyone can tell me how to do accents, I'd appreciate it. Anais Anais is pronounced 'Ana-eece', and there's an umlaut over the 'i' and I srsly didn't want to appear too _ignint_, but I guess the damage is done. ;-D

oooOOOooo

_She shot you then saved you… She cauterized your gunshot wounds. Why? _

"Colonel Sheppard? John? Are you with us? Just open your eyes, son. You'll see it's us. Quit fighting us, there's a good lad. You're doing yourself more harm than good. We have you now. Oh, for pity's sake. John. John! Help me out here, someone. Anyone. You lot! Over here, lads! Lift him down gently. Easy does it. Oh, this isn't working. John! Stop fighting. Open your eyes, there's a good lad!"

"No."

He had no intention of opening his eyes. He didn't need to leave this place. Go from bad to worse. If he could have swatted their groping paws away, he would have.

"John, we are here for you. Let us help! Open your eyes! For me!" A woman.

"You m'new owner?" Then, he had to open his eyes for her. He tried. He really did. Maybe if he offered her his best puppy dog eyes, she wouldn't beat him too badly. It sometimes worked. He only succeeded in raising his eyebrows, and his eyeballs rolled into the back of his head. He had to try again, but it was so hard, he -

"John! We cannot own you. You are a human being. You are our friend!" He felt her tug his boxers back up and over his hips. There was a time long, long ago he might've been grateful for the gesture.

_- used to be human. 'M not any more. _

As for friends, he thought he might have had some of those once. It was good while it lasted. But he'd been abandoned. Left outside an animal shelter in a cardboard box.

"Open your eyes, Sheppard." A growl of a big junkyard dog. Crap.

"'M sorry… Can't… Eye... lid... m-mal… f-func... tionnh... "

Maybe his new owner'd be more lenient than his last one. He couldn't remember what he'd done to deserve it, but she'd run her fingers over his matchy-matchy impalement scars either side of his lower body, poked and prodded while he hung there helpless, then looked at him with a sick grin. He couldn't remember exactly how he came about those scars, but he guessed he'd been bad for his previous owner, too. He was a bad dog. Bad.

Then she'd shot him. Right through those scars. In a haze of agony, and just when he'd thought it couldn't get any worse, she'd shoved a red hot poker deep into both through'n'throughs. He couldn't scream as by then his voice was shot to hell. He'd gasped and wheezed instead. She'd wanted him to live, but she'd wanted him punished to make sure he didn't… didn't… what? He wasn't clear on that. Maybe that's why he was always being punished. Because he could never remember jack.

"Comfy... chair… "

He wanted to crawl back under his stone. If only he could find a little water, he could maybe dab his burn marks, calm them down. Thing about burns is that there was never any let-up. It was constant agony. He'd learned that lesson well. Burns had always scared him, ever since he was around seven years old. He'd played with matches, had lit a candle in his bedroom in memory of his mom, and had played with that tiny, fascinating, wispy flicker of yellow and - whoa! - blue! Cool! He'd let the dark smoke play over and around his fingers, then feeling brave, he passed his right hand over the actual flame, and for some reason, held it there in place. It hurt! And unlike the endless grazes on his knees and bruises on his shins, it just wouldn't stop hurting.

Johnny ran in tears to Davey, who called him a jerk for being such a crybaby, and told him with a knowing look to go run his hand under cold running water. That worked, until he pulled his hand away. Then it burned worse than ever. When his dad found out what he'd done to himself, he'd slapped some Silverdene on it, and promptly launched into a lecture about playing with matches but even more about not sniveling like some goddamn pansy.

Johnny just sat there in a huddle on the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees, hugging himself better, and he listened in silence, his eyes red and swollen, struggling to stifle tell-tale sobs. He'd learned his lesson that day. Suck it up. Tell 'em 'I'm good.' He slept in the doghouse with Tyler that night, and pretended the warm body was his mom, and that Tyler's fur was his old blankie his dad threw away when he was five. The one that smelled of his mom. In the doghouse, he could let his tears flow freely.

When he was nearly nine, Johnny scalded his wrist while trying to make himself a bedtime hot chocolate like his mom use to make. He knew better than to bother anyone, and he dashed to the restroom, suppressing his tears, and let that water cascade over his entire hand for half an hour or so, even as he jiggled in desperation to go pee. Running water did that to a kid. He didn't want his dad or his brother to know he'd been an asshole again, so he hid the scald mark under a wristband. It was also a reminder he should keep his mouth shut when he was hurting, and take care of himself, look out for himself, and at the same time it was a reminder of his mom, which was a good thing. He had a steady supply of her wristbands in different colors as she used to play tennis a lot, sometimes even in tournaments. Mom even made the state finals before she got sick. He'd fished them all out of the donation pile after his dad's clearout of her stuff. Dad had sold off most of her jewelry bar a few trinkets. Johnny cared nothing for that junk as she'd never worn it on a daily basis. Some of it she never wore at all. Her clothes smelled of her in a way diamonds and rubies never could.

He never wore the pink wristbands as pink was for girls and… pansies, whatever that meant. Those he kept under his pillow. After Tyler had to be put down, he sometimes slept in the doghouse with Casey, who later got hit by a truck, then Beau, who went head to head with some coyotes, and he always lit a candle for them when they passed, but he never put his hand near an open flame again.

By the time Johnny was in high school, and was no longer Johnny but John, he still wore his wristbands, and by then he was ready to fight over them, and win. He was officially a jock and didn't look out of the ordinary. Well, apart from his ears but they got covered back then by his crazy hair. Wristbands and sweatbands were the order of the day along with other cool sports gear. Much later he later found out the scent impregnating the wristbands was called Anais Anais. It took Nancy to tell him. She had challenged him over some other woman's scent in the house as she preferred Chanel No 5, but he never spilled the beans. There was no point. His marriage was already on the rocks.

"Oh, no! Not the comfy chair! Ow! What? It's Monty Python! He's being witty. Sheppard is a wit. At least he's half a one. Right, Sheppard? Eh? Ow! Quit hitting me, Conan!"

_Whuh?_

"Ronon! Rodney! Behave!"

He cringed. He'd better behave too. He stopped squirming and went limp. He was on fire. Squirming helped minimize the pain. They wanted him to hurt. Drive the lesson home. Tears trickled freely down his cheeks, and he began to sob. Pride had gone bye-bye long ago.

"John, thank you for co-operating. Good lad. We only want to help."

_Sure you do_.

"We're here for you, Sheppard."

_Sure you are._

"What Conan said."

_Drop it._

He'd let them fix him up. It would only be to heal him for his next due punishment, but until he could manage to die, smack his head even harder on the stone bench next time, he'd have to take what he could get. It would give him the strength to do what he needed to do. He felt his body being lifted from the gate, and placed back in his cot. At least, it didn't appear to be his bench. He waited in agonized silence for the tainted water and broth. Instead, one of them jabbed him in the back of his hand. He felt himself relax. He could still feel all the ministrations, manipulations, contortions, but it was hazy now. Distant. Like it wasn't his own body. He remembered it was no longer his anyways, and they were taking it away from him to do whatever they wanted with it.

"Do you know your name, son?"

"Sh-Shep."

"Close enough."

"Who did this to you?"

"S-Sam… " _Samara._ The alternative was way worse.

"Sam? No, son. I don't think so. This isn't anything Colonel Carter would do. She's a good person." Shep heard the man whisper something about bandaging his wrist, and not attempting to pull his dog tags away until they got him into surgery.

Surgery? Surgery meant Carson!

"Car- "

"What is it, lad?"

"Carson?"

"Aye, lad! Aye! It's me! It's us!"

"Tell us who did this, Sheppard. I'll beat the crap out of 'em."

The junkyard dog was on his side? Things were looking up!

"And don't say 'Sam', Sheppard, because as we both know that's a heap of -_ ow!"_

"Sam- Samara." They were wiping him down. Cleaning him up. He guessed they didn't want infection to set in. He wouldn't be of much use to them then.

"That creepy, dark-haired bitch who does weird stuff to you after seven days? Like a Wraith?"

"Same." Now someone was palpating him for broken bones. He fought again not to squirm.

"John, I do not believe that can be so. We received an anonymous tip as to your location by a normal human female."

Invasive fingers ran through his hair and down his left cheek. He braced himself for a follow-up slap.

"Aye, lass. Keep him with us while we get him prepped for transport. Help me sponge him down a wee bit. His temperature is high. Little wonder he's a tad delusional, poor bugger."

"No."

_Transport?_

"No?"

"Not. Normal. Sick. Head." He shook his head in lieu of tapping his temple with a forefinger in that universal gesture indicating mental instability.

"Doctor Beckett. I believe the brand to be the letter S."

"Looks like an emoticon to me, what with the feeding mark. Wait. You don't think… She's dead! Isn't she? It's one of the more immutable laws of wormhole physics, that - or maybe not… " Shep heard a harrumph, followed by fingers snapping together, and an acerbic demand for a pen and paper.

They all fell silent at that. Shep decided to switch off too. His new owner'd just have to get her ya-yas out by beating him while he was unconscious.

oooOOOooo


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - This is it! Last chapter. Hope you liked! Oh, apart from that, we fan fic writers are all too well aware that on average only 1 out of 100 readers leaves a review. We don't ask for much. Just maybe even an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot winky emoticon even many moons or eons later. Indulge us. It makes us write. For you as well as for ourselves. It is our ambrosia, our nectar, our soma, our baileys, our chocolate, our potato chips, our pickled onions... ;-D

oooOOOooo

They were striping him again. Bruising him. Maiming him. They had to be. He could hear a steady thwacking, whooshing sound, though his body couldn't feel it beyond a repetitive dull thud, and a mild sensation of jerking. He'd been able to detach from his latest punishment after all. Finally. Maybe that was a precursor to either ascension or death. Then, the distant sound seemed to race and intensify. He still couldn't work out where the strikes were falling. It didn't hurt, so he didn't care. He no longer owned his body, so what difference could it make?

"I do believe he's waking up. I'll go fetch our friendly, neighborhood witch doctor then, shall I?"

"No need, McKay. Nurses have the heart monitor monitored. They'll be fluppering around like smobbalugs to naffpoop any miffle now."

"What? Seriously? That Satedan? Neat!"

"Made it up."

"Ah, Gobbledegook. Nice one. Was it brillig, eh? Did the slithy toves mayhaps gire and gimble in the wabe? Eh?"

"I believe what Ronon is trying to say," Teyla raised an eyebrow, "is that it might be better for John to see us all beside his bed, Rodney."

"Yes, well. Like I hadn't thought of that. Ew, that bandage around his right wrist looks nasty. I see Carson performed his voodoo, and actually managed to remove the chain and tags. Looks like he had to sacrifice a whole chicken coop's worth to fix that mess. And several head of buffalo."

"Saray- "

"Shushah, Ronon! He does not yet know that we know it was her!" Shep heard a stage-whisper.

"Samara?"

Shep could pretty much hear a shrug in the voice of the junkyard dog, like he knew him and could read him. He peeked to gauge its size. Get its measure. He looked between his eyelashes at the whiny lap dog, and then at the human female. His owner.

"Sadly, yes. Perhaps we should call her that until John cares to divulge the truth."

Sarayah_. _The soulless bitch dumped him. Abandoned him like he'd outlived his usefulness. But – he'd behaved! At least he'd tried to. And now this new owner. Kinder, gentler. He could hear her voice. She would claim him. He would be her Shep. Soon…

The thwacking sound was the insistent beat of his own heart.

"I can't believe Sa – Samara tin-punched her name on his dog tags, and then welded the chain on him. That could have taken his hand off."

_Ya think?_

"I see his eyelids fluttering. He is truly awake. This is a good thing."

Uh oh. They were onto him. Perhaps he should show subservience. He wrenched his eyes fully open, and bared his teeth. He also wanted to show he had no weapons, but it was hard for him to raise his hands more than a fraction of an inch from his bed.

"H-Hey," he croaked in appeasement.

"John! It is good to see you! You… know who we are?"

"Yeah… " _M' new owner and a coupla guard dogs. _

He'd tell them it was good to be seen just to keep them happy, just to keep them away from him, to give him time to heal or find a way out. He wanted to hide under his stone bench, his comfy chair_._ He could feel his body rematerializing around him, and that wasn't good either. That meant they could actually see him. Shep willed himself invisible, to no avail. Suddenly his Humane Society cage acquired the dimensions of a microwave oven.

"Teyla has something for you."

He looked across at the dumpy bulldog wannabe. Rodney. For some reason, he was hopping on the spot. The dumpy dog looked elated. He really didn't care to know what this Teyla had for him, but he bent his head in submission all the same.

"Aw. He's overcome."

The junkyard dog, Ronon, clipped the back of Rodney's head, knocking some fur flying. Shep suspected it wasn't the first time. No wonder he was balding.

"Don't think so. At least, not in a good way. Look at him. Sheppard? You okay?"

"S-Sure. I'm good. I'll be good." _I promise. You won't need to beat me much._

"John, these are for you. They are new. Your old ones were… irreparably damaged."

Shep looked at the dog tags, draped decoratively over a large, scented candle in her outstretched hands. She was smiling. She was claiming him.

_No… _

A tiny spark of him deep in the pit of his stomach knew without a doubt that this was wrong. All wrong. No-one should own him. No-one. He belonged to himself. Always did. Always would.

"No."

"What? What do you mean, 'No!'? We're trying to replace your mangled, misappropriated belongings here. Ronon has a new macho-looking wristband for you, though admittedly it's black leather and not cheapo dollar store terry cloth, and I bought you a spanking new knocked-off Roll- "

"No!"

Shep leaped from the gurney, landing on his banged-up knee. He realized he was pretty much buck-naked. He scrambled around, frantically searching for his stone bench, his comfy chair, or some semblance of it.

"No!"

Spying nothing but the gurney they'd plunked him on, he grabbed the sheet, and yanked. He ended up in a tug-of-war with the junkyard dog. He either won, or the other dog let go. No matter. Shep took home the prize.

"No!"

They were coming for him. Surrounding him like a zombified pack of mutants. They were lumbering in for the kill. Shep did the only thing he could think of. He scuttled under the gurney, curled up under it, and pulled the sheet over his exposed body. If he couldn't see them, maybe they couldn't see him. Judging by the silence, he'd shaken them off. They would pass him by, not knowing he was under there, and they would pick out another so-called rescue animal for their nefarious purposes. He wouldn't draw attention to himself. He, too, fell silent, hardly daring to breathe.

He heard footfall. The rustle of his sheet. If he stayed still, maybe they'd lose interest. Then, three objects appeared under the sheet right by his head. A wristband. A wrist watch. Those dog tags. Anchoring his sheet under feet and knees and elbows, he freed his hands, and peeled off the bandages. His right wrist was badly burned all around, like a shiny crimson bracelet.

He remembered covering up a scar there once. This was far worse. He cast the bandages aside, and covered this strange, new dotted, pitted scar with the newly-proffered wristband, even though it hurt him. It fit. Then he looked at the watch. A knock-off? Trust Rodney!

_Trust Rodney..._

"I bought this last time I went to visit my cat. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but you might as well have it now. Especially as I was thinking of hanging onto it. I might not have felt quite as sorry for you by then, and you'd most likely have ended up with a plastic travel chess set or a pack of playing cards from the dollar store, of which there are many."

"Thanks."

These people were being nice to him. And that Rodney made him laugh. Maybe it was genuine. Shep looked at the tags. He reached out, and gingerly pulled them towards him using his pinkie. When they didn't burn his fingers, he looked them over. And read them.

Sheppard, John

163-23-4111 AF

AB POS

RC

That was him. His name. His birthstate. His social security number followed by his area of service in the armed forces. His blood type. The religion he was born into. This was the sum of his identity. Teyla was relinquishing ownership of him. She was giving him back to himself. He was Sheppard, John. 163 - 23 -

He was John Sheppard.

"May I come in, Colonel Sheppard? John?"

Teyla slipped under the sheet, and stayed low, slinking against the floor, on his level. Slowly, she pulled the sheet down from over both their faces. He felt panic, and backed up against the cold steel legs of the gurney. He reached up, but his wrists were no longer restrained. He held onto the frame anyways, anchoring himself. Dangling. Waiting. For either care or abuse.

Next thing he knew, the entire gurney had been draped with two huge sheets, like a bivouac. It looked like the sheets were systematically being clipped together with hemostats zipper-fashion, leaving two entrance flaps. The wannabe tent was taped down at four corners, allowing just the one flap. He spun around frantically, to see the sheets taped at five points in total. A shaggy head appeared in the entrance. Ronon. He tossed over a small, black furry thing. He let go of the frame with one hand, and almost reached for it.

"Found a black one in your underwear drawer, Sheppard. There was a pink one under your pillow, but I left it there. Smells nice." He grinned. "Made that other one myself. Even chewed the leather to make it soft. It's dyed with Wraith blood. Only way to get deep, dark, no fucking shit black."

"Ronon?"

"Yep?"

"Did you maybe chew the leather after you dyed it?"

"Nope. Before."

"That's good. That's good, buddy."

"I'm still John Sheppard," he stated flatly. It was a lot to take in. He let go the frame, and dropped both hands in his lap.

Yes! John Sheppard! That is you. I am Teyla. My baby son is Torren John Emmagan. He was named for you and for my father."

She clutched his still sore forearms, and touched her forehead to his. He struggled not to flinch. It was a gesture of equality. That of a peer. A friend.

"I n-never really got that. You... introduced yourself to me as... Teyla, daughter of Tagan."

She chuckled.

"That was my mother's name. We Athosians are a matriarchal society. Torren will introduce himself one day as Torren John, Son of Teyla. Or Torren John of the Emmagan clan. If the Ancestors grant me a daughter, I might yet name her Tagan, and she shall be Daughter of Teyla. Though I must admit I find my mother's name somewhat harsh to my ear. It is… too 'old fashioned'? As you say?"

He smiled at that. Teyla was ever the diplomat. Her mother's name was way ugly.

"I might yet call a daughter of mine Tagan Elizabeth Emmagan. What say you to that, John Sheppard?"

"It… has a certain ring to it." He scrubbed his face. "I'm in the doghouse." He gulped. " 'S'Why'm here. Under… " he looked about him, rolled two fingers, and for want of a better word, he added, "here."

John bowed his head.

"No, John. You have done nothing wrong."

"So, why do I hurt both inside and out?" He hung his head. It was hard to look her in the eye.

"Because you feel both inside and out. You have great empathy for all."

"Why'm I under here?" He scratched the back of his head.

"To make you feel safe. You were feverish, and more than a little disoriented, for many days."

"A third friendly face appeared at the entrance. "Aye, lad. But you're fine now. Nothing we can't take care of. If you'd rather stay under there for a wee while longer, I can put off your next check-up. I'll have someone fetch some pillows and blankets for you all. Back in a mo."

"All we need now is Torren."

"Why do you say that, Rodney? Torren is on the mainland with his father."

"Pity. This has all the makings of a Nativity scene. Except there's only one wise man. Well, genius, actually, and 'Joseph' here is getting all the cool gifts. A little off, don't you think?"

If he'd had anything in his mouth, he would have sputtered it out by now.

_You're a good friend, Arthur. _He looked at Rodney long and hard.

"Hey, Rodney?"

"Yes?"

"You can keep the myrrh."

"Funny. Knock, knock?"

"Who's there?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "That wasn't a 'knock, knock' joke, Sheppard. May I come in?"

"Sure."

"Room for me, buddy?" Ronon.

"No. But you can still come in," he quipped, and he managed a fleeting grin.

This was his team. He hung his head once more. He didn't deserve them. Not really. He'd go running with Ronon as soon as his feet were fully healed, and sparring with Teyla as soon as mind and the rest of his body were fully healed, and he prayed he wouldn't make a complete asshole of himself, and bow to her when she wielded those bantos sticks. He'd help McKay with his equations like it was his math homework. They'd go out on missions -

Out... Oh, god…

"She's still out there, and here we are. In here." John kept his head low.

"We will also be out there, John."

"She broke me." He looked up surreptitiously.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Voldemort?"

"Hah! Funny. Old, but funny."

"We know it was Sarayah."

"And Sora. And Shiana."

"What? Kidding, right?"

"No. The three of 'em took it in turns to - " He couldn't go on. He scuffled backwards, as far away from everyone and everything as he could get, and felt his spine hit the infirmary wall. No escape, then. Huh. He could feel the tears well up. Damn! He'd bolted those floodgates shut since he was a kid. Over the years in Pegasus, the bolts had morphed into bandaids. All it would take was one weak one, and he'd shed the tears he should have shed for everyone he'd lost, everyone he'd harmed, everything he'd ever done wrong and couldn't undo.

Just then the floodgates burst open, and tears poured unchecked down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, too embarrassed to face his teammates. He could feel Teyla's tiny hands drawing him to her, wrapping her arms around him, drawing him close. He could feel her soft skin against his own, but this time, he allowed the contact to happen. He was sobbing now. Blubbing. Other arms joined her. He could feel large calloused ones ruffling his hair, and putty-like hands patting him. Then they hugged him tight. As suddenly as the floodgates opened, they slammed shut. He'd shed the tears he should have shed as a little boy. Now it was time to suck it up.

"I'm good," he declared, and he made to move, to get a grip, but they held onto him anyway, until he relaxed, and fell asleep in the arms of people who loved him.

oooOOOooo


End file.
